


FrUk one shots

by edokko



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edokko/pseuds/edokko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of one shots focusing on France/England<br/>Chapter 1: Breakup/Makeup<br/>Chapter 2: Human AU, Writer Arthur</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Closer

“I don’t want to be together anymore, France. ”  
  
England’s voice cracks as he says these words, his hands slightly shaking. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway as France cooks dinner, his statement disrupting what would have been another tranquil evening in their Paris apartment.

“What? If this is another one of your sarcastic jokes, it’s not funny, Angleterre.” France looks unfazed as he gingerly takes out the roast duck from the oven, and garnishes it with a pinch of herbs and salt.

“It’s not a joke!” England’s face turns red as he begins yells, and he struggles to continue saying the words he’s been practicing for a few weeks. “I’m not happy anymore, and I’ve been hearing things…”  
  
Those are the magical words, and France slowly turns to look at England. His eyes are narrowed and his face is contorted in such an angry expression that it startles England. France wipes his hands off with a clean towel before speaking, his voice concerned.  
  
“What kind of things, exactly?”  
  
“Oh, not much. Just that you were making passes at another nation’s secretary.”  
  
“Are you saying you don’t trust me, even though we’ve been together for this long?”  
  
“It’s not about trust, France.“ England leans on the doorframe, and crosses his arms.  
  
“Then what is it then? You believe the words of others, over your own lover? This is a new low even for you.” France knows that this is the perfect type of insult to bring England’s temper to the surface.

“What is that supposed to mean?” England’s eyes are wide at the accusation.  
  
“Don’t tell me you're so naive to believe that you've never hurt or been cruel to anyone else. You know what I’m talking about.” France turns his back to England and opens the cupboard above the sink, pulling out a wineglass. Being together for so long makes one aware of both the other’s strengths and weaknesses, and France knows that England despises being ignored more than anything else.  
  
“Don’t fucking turn your back on someone when they’re talking, frog! You’re one to talk. That’s what I’ve always hated about you… you actually look down on me, don’t you? Even though you’ve been just as cruel in your time.”  
  
“I won’t bother to entertain such childish thought. If you really think I’d take up another lover, then get out of my home. I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t trust me.” France casually shoos England away with a slight nudge of his hand, and opens up a bottle of strong red wine.

“I never loved you, anyway.” England mutters under his breath as he leaves the kitchen and slams the door.  
  
France pretends that he didn’t hear as he pours himself a glass.  
  
\---  
  
The first few months go by quickly for England as he readjusts to living in London, the familiar feel of the city giving him comfort. But the novelty of being home soon wears off when administrative work starts to pile up, his stays overnight at the office getting more frequent. Not to mention that small twinge of sadness that’s beginning to grow every time he opens the door home to his lonely and chilly flat.

He still sees France at EU meetings, although France only talks to him when absolutely necessary. Soon after their breakup, England started to make jokes aimed at France like old times, but stopped when the frog wouldn’t even respond, let alone look in his direction. He knew France wouldn’t take the split lightly, but he thought that they could still be on talking terms, even outside of official business.

Today it’s another meeting, this time for NATO, but his mind is only focused on analyzing the current situation between him and France, not about new defensive systems.

Suddenly, a young, slightly cocky, and concerned voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Whoa, dude, are you okay? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a beard. Not to mention it’s a red one, too.” America grips England’s left shoulder tightly.

“Oh, is the meeting over already?” England says lazily, as he sees other nations shuffling out of the room, including France. He touches his chin and feels the stubby hairs, and makes a mental note to shave later when he gets home. He turns his seat around to face America.  
  
Canada is also standing alongside his brother, a worried smile on his face. “You look more tired than usual, England.” His expression reveals that he knows something about what’s on in England’s mind, but he’s able to hold his tongue much better than his brother.

“I heard you and France aren’t together anymore…is that true, England?” America has always been curious, to the point that other nations would consider it almost an invasion of privacy.

"That’s really none of your business.” England scoffs as he gets up and puts on his coat.

“Whatever, it’s super obvious.” America rolls his eyes, expecting exactly this type of reaction from his previous guardian. “If you do want to talk about it though, we’re both here, you know.” He points his thumb to Canada next to him, who awkwardly nods.

“Thanks for your offer boys, but I’m really fine.” England doesn’t even say a proper goodbye to them, as all he wants to do is be alone in his thoughts at home.  
  
After he’s left the room, Canada turns to his brother, hands on his hips. “I told you he wouldn’t want you to ask him.”  
  
“Bro, it’s not like he would ever tell us about it voluntarily, anyway.”  
  
Canada sighs. “I just hope he’ll be okay.”  
  
  
\---

England is surprised at his own memory, having no problems remembering the exact route to France’s apartment in Paris, tucked in a small street in the 16th arrondissement. It’s early enough in the morning on Valentine’s day for the local florist to still have some roses, and he gets a strange look from her as she tries to remember where she recognizes this young man with terribly thick eyebrows. He chokes on his own poorly pronounced French, although he does manage to get a decent looking bouquet after a bit of a struggle.

He pats down his hair thick hair a bit, and clears out his throat before pressing the buzzer to France’s apartment.  
  
“ _’Allo?”_ says a smooth, husky voice from the speaker, and England can feel goose bumps on his skin.

“Francis, it’s me. I’ve come to talk.” England meekly replies.

There’s a long silence, before France responds.

“What do you want, Arthur?” France’s voice is cold and flat. His tone makes England panic, and he can’t hold back the torrent of words.

“France, I’m really sorry for bothering you, but I just want to talk about things. I know you probably hate me at this point, and I know that we can’t go back to the way things were, bu-“

There’s a loud buzzing sound as the door unlocks, and England rushes to push it open.

He uses the small and slow elevator to go up to the penthouse floor, and he gently opens the door to his old home. His heart is pounding so loudly that he’s sure France can hear it with each thump.

France is standing on the balcony with his back turned to England, the smoke from his cigarette making wispy spirals around his head. He turns around when he hears England’s footsteps in the kitchen, the cigarette hanging downward from his lips.

He glances up and down England’s outfit, which has been so carefully planned that he instantly knows that England had been thinking of this day for a long, long time. A red woolen Burberry scarf graces the green-eyed nation’s neck, with a fitted beige trench coat, tight black jeans and shiny, pointed black leather shoes completing the look.

“Not so bad looking today, _Angleterre._ ” France states as he takes another drag from his cigarette. His facial expression is still serious, but England can tell that the tone in his voice is getting friendlier.

England is flustered at the compliment, but quickly remembers the purpose of his trip and pushes the roses roughly into France’s chest. “Th-these are for you. H-happy Valentine’s Day, France.” The nervousness and excitement in his stomach are making him feel sick, but he still manages to put on an awkward smile.  
  
France stares intently at the roses for a moment, trying to concentrate on them to conceal a growing feeling of happiness. At the same time England’s mind is running the worst scenarios in his mind, before France startles him with loud, uncontrolled laughter.

"Oh, is this your way of saying sorry? It’s ridiculously romantic of you, coming to apologize on a day like today.” France wipes the tears from his eyes as he lets out a few more chuckles.  
  
England’s face turns a dark shade of pink, and he begins to recite his apology speech.

“France, I’m…I’m really sorry about what I said. I-I was just jealous, you know how I am, and it was just pure conjecture about you cheating on me…I-I don’t know what to say except that I was just plain wrong, and stupid…and I’ve missed you more than you can even imagine, it’s been so lonely in London without you and the smell of your cooking when I get home an-“

France gives England a brief kiss on his lips, and the familiar taste and feeling of France’s kisses make him want more.

“I forgive you. Yes, even after all these months. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me.”  
  
England can’t keep his composure any longer and hot tears roll down his cheeks, feeling both happiness at France’s forgiveness and anger at his own foolishness. France envelops him in his arms, hugging him tightly. He gently kisses England’s wet cheeks until he stops crying, running soothing fingers through the other nation’s disheveled hair.

“F-France?” England asks in a broken voice.

“Yes?”  
  
“I-I love you.”  
  
France smiles and gives England a long kiss on the top of his head.

“I love you too, England.”  
  


_  
Half a year later..._

 

“ _Angleterre!_ Boys! The food is ready, come quickly!” France yells, hoping that America and Canada aren’t causing trouble outside.

It’s France’s birthday in July, and even though he would usually be in Paris to make sure celebrations were going as planned, he had asked to take a few days off to spend time with family in his home in southern France. He’s just finished placing the main dish on the middle of the dining table when Canada and America rush in, both panting for breath and nearly knocking over a few chairs in the process.

“I totally beat you bro!” America says with a huge smirk on his face.  
  
“What?! No! We both arrived at the same time!” Canada retorts.

“No way! You lost, so you’re the one that has to do the dishes!”

France clicks his tongue and both boys look up to him at the same time.  
  
“Now, now, boys. Calm down and take a seat at the table.” France sits down and finishes unfurling a napkin onto his lap when he senses someone behind him, and a little kiss on his head.  
  
America makes a gagging noise on the other side of the table as France turns his head up and gets another kiss, this time on the lips, by England.  
  
England plops down a heavy bottle of champagne on the table, and Canada brings over 4 tall glasses. America nearly breaks the bottle while trying to open it, and almost gives England a black eye with his aiming of the cork, but they manage to fill all the glasses without hurting or killing anyone.

“To France: _Joyeux Anniversaire!_ May the many years ahead be filled with happiness and love.” England winks at France as he finishes the sentence, and the boys also repeat well wishes before they all drink down the glass in one big gulp.

“ _Merci ma famille, merci.”_ France gives England a wet champagne kiss on the cheek, then on the lips. “I’m so glad we’re back together again.” France whispers into England’s ear, the Frenchman's silky voice giving his body tingles.  
  
“Happy birthday, love.” England whispers back softly, blushing. "I-I hope you're happy with today."  
  
"Nothing could make me happier than spending this day with you."France gives him another loud kiss on the lips before returning to his seat. 

America continues making gagging noises until England yells at him to stop, while Canada rolls his eyes at his brother's reaction and gives France a wink, which the other nation returns back.  
  
England has never felt happier for apologizing in his life. 

 


	2. Writer's Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Arthur is a successful romance writer, and Francis becomes his main muse (through a meeting by chance).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Miroir d'eau is the largest water mirror in the world. You can find a picture of it [here](http://monumentsdebordeaux.com/images/miroir-d-eau-385.jpg).
> 
> Also, some pictures of the city, [ 1](http://hotelbordeauxcentre.com/img/cache/886a9f9edb12bdd4ac1d58f0283b6855/page_images/restaurant_by_night_bordeaux.jpg) [2](http://media3.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/photo/gallery/100323/GAL-10Mar23-4126/media/PHO-10Mar23-213644.jpg)

Arthur is already awake when his alarm rings at 6am, and the whistling of the kettle on the stove signals the start of his morning tea ritual. As he shuffles through the tea cans in the kitchen cupboard, he’s glad that he thought of bringing some of his favorite teas with him over to Bordeaux, as he hasn’t found the exact flavors he likes in the local supermarkets. But he’s not here to think about tea, he remembers—this small respite in the country over the channel is for work purposes. The publishing company had recently gotten worried about his writer’s block, and they were becoming very persistent as the deadline was only a few months away, so one of the editors suggested a little holiday might do him some good.  
  
It’d only been 5 days since he arrived in Bordeaux, and his rusty French was coming back in bits and pieces, but he already felt the city was a good fit. He’d been to Paris numerous times throughout his life but thought it’d be too distracting to concentrate on writing. Plus, he was afraid of being recognized out in public after his last sleeper romantic best seller, “Love Among The Stars” sold millions of copies in Europe and across the Atlantic, so he's glad he could walk around without worries in Bordeaux.  
  
Arthur thinks a walk by the Garonne river might get help his brain to think up the next big hit, so he puts on a tight fitting V-neck t-shirt, black slacks, and bright red sneakers. As he opens the door to leave he debates for a moment if he should put in contacts instead, but decides it isn't worth the trouble, and keeps his clear framed glasses on instead.  
  
Making his way slowly down the quay towards the direction of the city hall, he's enjoying the limestone 18th century buildings that make up the bulk of the city. He stops to take a rest on a bench by the Miroir d’eau, a reflective pool perfect for some relief from the hot August Saturday. Children are laughing and splashing around in the water, while their parents watch them and gossip in earnest about their lives.  
  
Arthur is debating the pros and cons of jumping in the water himself when he hears the sound of the bench creek with someone’s added weight. He turns to his right to see a man, legs crossed, with shoulder length ash blonde hair, and a certain air of _je ne sais quoi_ that so perfectly describes the flawless airs of the French. A warm smile graces the man's lips and his eyes follow the movements of the children playing for a few moments, before turning to Arthur and asking,  
  
“ _C’est bien pour les enfants d’avoir une place pour jouer comme ça, non_?” Arthur only caught certain words, so he shakes his head to show he has no idea what the other man was saying.  
  
“I’m sorry, but I don't speak French.” Arthur says with an embarrassed smile.  
  
“Oh! A Brit! It’s true your outfit didn’t seem very French… I said ‘isn’t it nice that there’s a place for children to play like this?’” His smile widens and his blue eyes are intensely staring at Arthur’s own, and Arthur feels a bit trapped, as if this man is trying to analyze him.  
  
Arthur focuses his attention on taking in the little details of the other man’s face, from his thin, light blonde eyebrows to the small dark hairs on his chin.  
  
He had to admit, this other man is quite attractive.  
  
“Yes, they seem to be having fun. Good place to take a break too, it’s very hot today.” Arthur fans out his shirt a bit to cool off.  
  
“I assume you’re just visiting? I’m from Paris, so I suppose I’m a tourist here, too.” The man inquires.  
  
“I’m on vacation, actually. The city is very lovely, I’m growing fond of it even though I’ve just arrived.” Arthur shifts his gaze to the buildings in front of the fountain, but he can still feel the man’s stare.  
  
“It is a very historical place…not to mention all the fantastic wine!” Arthur looks back at the man, just in time for a wink and a laugh at the end of his sentence.  
  
“I’m Francis, by the way. Francis Bonnefoy. Nice to meet you, Mr…?”  
  
Arthur grabs Francis’ outstretched hand tightly for a handshake, and replies,  
  
“Arthur…Arthur Williams.”  
  
“I thought for a moment you were going to say Arthur Kirkland, you know, that famous British author.” Francis lets out a light chuckle, and lets go of Arthur’s hand.  
  
Arthur doesn't know why he lied. He hoped it wouldn’t come back to haunt him later.  
  
After some small chit chat, Francis offers to show Arthur some of his favorite spots in Bordeaux, to which the latter happily accepts, as even though he isn't a local, Francis still did consider himself well versed in the history of the region. As they walk between small alleyways to obscure little spots Arthur would have never discovered on his own, Francis explains briefly how the city became an important trading port in Europe, and the rise and fall of many rich, local families. Arthur feels lucky for having his own personal guide, and is even a bit sad when Francis has to leave just before sunset for a dinner planned in advance.  
  
“I hope you enjoyed this little tour, Arthur. I’m sure I’ll run into you again, this town is not so big.” Francis shakes Arthur’s hand firmly and waves goodbye as he makes his way to the closest tram station.  
  
After buying some groceries on the way home and putting them away in the fridge, Arthur curls up cat-like on his chair in front of his computer, staring at the white light of his computer screen. He starts to tapping on his keyboard all the things that he’d learned from Francis that day, and slowly a story starts to take shape. Yes! A historical love comedy, that’s the next book he'll write. He types up the first page in a hurry before taking a little break to make some strong black tea. It would indeed be a productive night.  
  
\---  
  
Arthur wakes up later than usual the next morning after staying up till 4am, but he's refreshed anyway, since he's finally finished the first three chapters of his story. He hums to himself as he makes a light breakfast, optimistic for more progress.  
  
His mind refuses to cooperate, and he can't think of anything else to write, and he bangs his head on the desk in frustration (which hurt more than he expected). He does some more historical research for his story, but that didn’t inspire him in any way, either.  
  
He decides to see Francis again, but he doesn't have any contact information or even any clue of where he could find him.  
  
And so the days left in the week until Saturday go by slowly.  
  
\---  
Arthur takes a seat at the same bench, at the same time as last week, hoping that Francis will somehow appear and give him some more inspiration for his writing. But he's losing hope after an hour passes with no sight of the handsome Frenchman, and people watching is starting to get boring.  
  
“Arthur! Having another walk in the city?” Francis is beaming as he takes a seat next to him, and Arthur jumps a little at his surprise arrival.  
  
“Er-yes, I was. I was actually wondering if you had time for another tour today? I can’t read the signs explaining sites and things in French, so it’d be a big help. I can…treat you to a dinner afterwards, as thanks, if you’d like.” Arthur can feel his cheeks turning a bit red.  
  
“It’s still early enough in the day, so it should be fine. You mean you’re inviting me to dinner at your place, or…?” Francis has a mischievous look.  
  
“No no no, I-I mean, a-at a restaurant! Although I don’t know where we can go…”  
  
“I know a great place that has amazing duck confit, not to mention cheap and great wine!” Francis pats Arthur’s hand as a friendly gesture.  
  
It's getting dark when they finish the 3-hour tour of the highlights of the city, and Francis offers to show him to the restaurant he had talked about earlier. The restaurant is extremely tiny with only 3 small tables, and Arthur is afraid the food would be just as tiny as the seating space, but the head waitress Marion (who seemed to be good friends with Francis as they chat in rapid and happy sounding French) brings over two large plates of duck meat and thinly sliced baked potatoes, along with a large and inexpensive bottle of red Bordeaux wine.  
  
“To new friends!” Francis says loudly as he clinks his glass against Arthur’s.  
  
“Cheers!”  
  
\---  
  
They meet for two more Saturdays afterwards, both of them pretending as if it's a genuine surprise each time to see the other at the usual bench. With every meeting Arthur’s story becomes more alive, and his publisher seems happy with the updates on his progress.  
  
On the 5th Saturday after they first met, Francis comes to the usual spot a bit early, wanting to be the first to arrive for once. But he waits for two hours over the usually scheduled time before leaving, feeling angry for being slighted and for being so naïve. Was he just a convenient tool for the Englishman, and nothing else? And of course Arthur wouldn’t show up on an important day like today, when Francis was going to tell him that he would have to go back to Paris tomorrow, as he has sudden work commitments.  
  
After a month of continuous wondering back in Paris of what happened to Arthur, he stops thinking about the Englishman with untamed eyebrows, and moves on with life as if nothing had ever happened that summer.  
  
\---  
  
A year has already gone by since the summer in France and Arthur s feeling nervous in going back to the country. But he has no choice, as the first reading of his new smash hit novel is abroad in Paris. He’d been terrible at public speaking since grade school, but talking in front of 100 French fans who could ask him potentially long philosophical questions or critique his writing harshly seems impossible to deal with. His contract with his publisher stipulates otherwise, so he takes in a long breath and exhales slowly as he enters the special room they’d put aside for him at the FNAC on the Champs-Elysee. He didn't tell his publisher that half the reason why he agreed to go to Paris was to try and find that Frenchman who had been critical in completing his second novel.  
  
After 15 minutes of explaining the background of his latest historical romance novel, in which a Frenchwoman and an Englishman working in the wine trade in Bordeaux fall in love (how very original, he thinks to himself every time he explained the story out loud), and another 10 minutes of reading a few of his favorite chapters of the book, the Q &A portion of the reading session commences, and Arthur hopes the French would be gentle with him.  
  
The first question is innocent enough, with a female fan asking him in heavily accented English what his favorite type of tea is ("It's difficult to chose just one, but Ceylon is one of my favorites."). He's thinking that perhaps he can get used to interacting with fans at these kind of events, until a familiar voice speaks.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Kirkland. My name is Francis. I'm an architect here in Paris. I saw that you dedicated your novel to someone named Francis (a small laugh from the crowd)...could you please elaborate a bit more on who this person is? Is he family?" Francis looks satisfied to ruin Arthur's peace of mind, and Arthur has to pause to gather his thoughts to make sure he doesn't make any blunders while speaking.

"Thank you for your question, Francis. Actually, he was a dear friend that I made while I was writing my novel, last year, in the beautiful city of Bordeaux. I couldn't have completed the novel without his help." Arthur feels relieved for not screwing up, until Francis persists in asking more.

"How did he help you, Mr. Kirkland? Do you still talk to him?" A few people around Francis are giving him inquisitive looks, and a few people are muttering in the back about how this fan is hogging all the time for questions.

"He was my main inspiration for this novel...that is to say, he was my muse." Arthur feels his cheeks getting hot, and he sees a few people in the crowd raising their eyebrows. "He showed me around a city I was lost in, and his teachings about the region's history were really important in giving me some background to develop my characters, realistically. And unfortunately I don't, but I do still want to properly thank him for all his help, if I'm ever lucky enough to meet him again one day." A moderator harrumphs to signal to Francis that his time is up, and he reluctantly passes the microphone to a fan in the row behind him.

Now Arthur wants the Q&A to end quickly for different reasons, and he prays to whatever higher deity was out there that Francis won't leave during the questions. And his wish seems to be granted, as the Frenchman lingers after most of the fans had left when Arthur finished signing their books.  
  
"So, 'Mr. Williams'? Do you have a minute to speak?" Francis asks, with a heavy emphasis on Arthur's fake last name.  
  
Arthur looks around to make sure none of the assistants are close by. "Yes, but it has to be quick." Arthur lightly nudges his head over to where the assistants are folding chairs. "I don't want anyone else to be around."  
  
"Alright. Then meet me by on the rive gauche side of the Seine, by Notre Dame. There's a little clearing where people picnic. We meet there, in exactly one hour, at 7. And don't forget to bring a good bottle of Bordeaux, Mr. Williams." Arthur scribbles down the directions sloppily on a white napkin, and Francis had already left when he looks up to ask for more specifics.

After making an excuse to his assistants of why he has to cancel his later meetings, he stops by the local grocery store and buys the most expensive bottle of Bordeaux there is. After struggling to get helpful directions with his awful French, he realizes he only has 30 minutes left before 7. After the cab driver understands the destination he wants to go to on the 5th attempt, Arthur arrives by the famous cathedral with 10 minutes to spare, and he curses himself as he realizes he went to the wrong side of the Seine. He's 15 minutes late when he finds the spot with many families, tourists, friends, and lovers enjoying a warm evening picnic by the river.  
  
He feels like luck is on his side for once in his life when he finds Francis sitting with a baguette, knife, cheese, and two wine glasses. He looks up when he hears Arthur's footsteps.

"You're lucky I didn't leave. You only had 5 more minutes until I would have given up on this whole thing." Francis' voice is a bit bitter, but Arthur is hoping the wine will bring out the generous and happy man he had met last summer.  
  
"I'm really sorry, my French has gotten even worse than that summer and I had a few problems in getting here. Here, I brought this." He sets down the wine bottle with a clunk, and Francis inspects the bottle closely.

"...did you just buy the most expensive wine, thinking it was the best one?"  
  
"...Yes, I suppose I did. Are you unhappy with it? I can-"  
  
"No no, this will do. Now sit down, so we can enjoy the view while it's still light outside." Francis motions for Arthur to sit down by him, and shuffles the food around for more space.

After sitting in silence for a few minutes while Francis prepares the bread and cheese, Arthur speaks first.  
  
"So...how did you know there was my reading today? I tried looking for you Francis during this past year, but all my leads turned up empty."  
  
Francis stops what he's doing. "Well, it's pretty easy to find you when ads with your face and the text 'Meet the author of the new hit romantic novel, Arthur Kirkland! Coming to Paris, this summer' is plastered all over the city."  
  
Arthur feels extremely embarrassed, as he was unaware of the marketing scheme they used abroad to promote his new book...the price of success, he supposes.

"Your book was awful, by the way. I read the entire thing in a night--it's very obvious who you were thinking of when you wrote the qualities of the male lead." 

"Cheesy romance sells, but I hope you're a bit flattered that I dedicated the book to you."

"...I did. And that's the only reason why I decided to forgive you and see you today. Because at least it showed me that you remembered." The glasses are filled with wine before Arthur realizes it, and Francis gives a nod of approval for Arthur to take one.

"Of course I remembered. You were my main inspiration, after all. I'm sorry for this whole mess, I truly am."  
  
Francis snorts loudly. "If you think one sorry is going to make up for all the romance lost in this year, then you must be more naive than I thought."  
  
"I promise I'll make this up to you, Francis. I promise." Arthur hoped his sincerity was audible in his voice.  
  
“Then let’s start this whole thing over. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, and an architect living in Paris. Nice to meet you, Mr…?”  
  
“Kirkland. Arthur, Kirkland. I’m a writer, based in London. Nice to meet you as well, Francis.”  
  
Francis raises his wine glass for a toast. “To new friends, and new beginnings.” The Francis Arthur met in Bordeaux is back, with a look of satisfaction on his face.

Arthur decides to take a chance and gives Francis a quick and rushed kiss on the lips, hoping that he didn't anger the Frenchman.  
  
“And cheers as well to romance, and lov-” Arthur says with a wide grin, clinking his glass against Francis', before the Frenchman cuts him off with a kiss back.  
  
  
  



End file.
